Rocks

It's been one hell of a weekend, and it's made me think a lot about rocks.

(This photo is one of those Ireland pictures I took a year ago. Also weird to think it's been a year since I took that trip... and what I different woman I am today. All things good, but just strange to think what a difference one year can make in your life.)

Why rocks, you say, Sarah?

For one, I've had the pleasure to get to know people who are rocks. There's been a bit of death rolling around in my life as of late (3 funerals in 2 months. Well, at least I know, in all likelihood, I'm done for a while. Deaths always come in 3s). I look at the people who carry on after death -- and especially strong women like DTs grandma, who has buried 4 babies, a full-grown son, and now, 2 husbands... and I wonder how she's not a pile of catatonic goo. She's my hero, in many ways. And Diana is right ... you don't know what you can handle until it gets thrusted onto you ... but wow.

I'm also thinking of rocks that sit in the path you walk. Are they barriers? Are they detours? Are they there purposefully ... like milestones, maybe? And is someone else's milestone my barrier? Or vice versa? I don't have any answers to this. It just gets me to thinking.

On Memorial Day weekend, my family picked rocks at the (new) cabin. We stacked those rocks around the (new) cabin, in an effort to prevent erosion and to make the (new) cabin look a little more like it belongs there (right now, it just looks like an awkward giant mansion where my childhood forest used to sit). I always think of the lifespan of a rock when I pick it up... how much its seen that I will only read about in texts, how many future generations of Sarah Green progeny have the ability to pick it up and muse the same thoughts. It was also a bonding experience: all the Greens placing stones around a house that will carry our matriach and patriarch into their well-deserved retirement. A house that will become a home with time and memories. A resting place to enjoy children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, a place to be quiet and reflect. A place to enjoy the fruits of a lifetime of labor. We all reinforced that foundation; we all buttressed the place that will shelter the man and woman who shaped each of us. It was neat, and a bit poetic, and a bit dirty. Blue-collar and homegrown and honest. Just like the family I hold so dear.

DTs is trying to teach Paige how to skip rocks. And Paige started trying to skip rocks when my dad (AKA Papa) taught her how to throw rocks into the lake, as a way of getting her to not be scared of the water and a way to help her enjoy the lake when she can't be in her swimsuit. This gets me thinking about how much I want to give Paige -- that she deserves an army of interconnected people who love her -- and how, perhaps even though I angst about providing everything I can for her, giving her a better childhood, making better memories... in spite of (or is it because of) my angst ... she's got that army. And I think it's much more her doing than mine. But I still feel compelled to do everything I can to make sure she's absolutely surrounded by people who love and support Essential Paige, and ask nothing more of her than that. I have my moments of doubt about the job I'm doing, but she's turning out lovely in spite of me. So maybe that's saying something.

The rock in my sandal last night made me bike goofy all the way to Grumpy's (in the skirt I recently sewed). But I was sorta proud of biking through my neighborhood (in a skirt) anyhow. It make me feel smart and adorable and very Sarah. Plus, the u-lock clunking in the purse against my back made me feel all kinds of sexy.

Finally, I made strawberry jam in my sweet little kitchen yesterday afternoon to the artistic styling of Art Brut's Bang Bang Rock and Roll. I'm inherently domestic; I realize this, I embrace it. 40 pounds of strawberries, some in a coffee cake, a ton of them in jam waiting to be jarred, 5 or so pounds in the freezer, and a bowlful waiting to be dipped into farmer's market chocolate. Mmm summer.